White Flight

flutter, flutter, flap

wings-on-white take graceful flight -

spring's brightest color

Homing Pigeon's Rest Stop

white bird

rests feather-light

after soaring  blue skies

leading a lost spirit toward home -

peace dove

This albino homing pigeon seems to have found a new home between our neighbor's backyard and ours.  It's quite large and has bright pink feet and a lighter pink beak.  It seems to be traveling by itself and I'm guessing it may have lost its way. Click on the picture to enlarge its image. I know, it's just a pigeon, but it's unusual and has caught my attention. 

P.S.

This Easter morning, white pigeon #1 was sitting on a wire with white pigeon #2. 

Going Green

The first harvest of 2009 is sprouting Spring happiness, making for luscious salads, veggies, garnishments and spices. This spring there's a cornucopia of culinary herbs including basil, chives, dill, oregano, lavender, mint, parsley, rosemary and sage. The rhubarb is huge! Its leaves are four-hands big and the stems are thick as a pre-schooler's crayon. Green tomatoes are on the vine now, but will soon turn to ripe redness. Two varieties of peppers are sporting shiny green jackets, and the green beans are slender slivers hanging side-by-side. The peas are just peeking through the soil, along with the lettuce, beans and broccoli and are greener than green. At the end of the row of lettuce, there's one volunteer head of red-leaf lettuce in the bunch. Bringing up the rear are cucumbers and corn competing for space with the black beans. Lastly, and most impressive are the two rows of onions, one row of white and the other sweet yellow with stems two feet long. Bring it on, Spring time, we're ready to fill our plates green with envy!

Summerizing the Pool

In under a week, our 25-year old pool got a complete face-lift. Bebe entertained the contractors by dropping her tennis ball into the waterless well and watching it roll to the deep-end's empty belly. One guy finally had to hide her ball in his back pocket so he could get his work done without having to fetch her ball for her every two minutes. Now that the pool has been resurfaced and refilled, summer can begin! Although, I heard a cold front will be making winter's last visit by Tuesday.

Springing Red

ruby
red velvet rose
blooms while cardinals break fast
under the new moon's pale shadow -
springtime

Caption Needed

Jilli and Carmen enjoying a rare 60 degree winter day in Michigan. Anyone want to take a guess as to what Jilli is doing? Your guess is as good as mine. Click on the photo to get the full effect. Go ahead, caption this one for me! I'll put up the most creative captions on the right.

A Round of Applause for Love

I have this funny cartoon that goes on in my head and pops up like Garfield's bubble, especially around Valentine's Day. It goes like this. First frame: Everyone is walking around wearing their hearts inside-out. Second frame: From each person's heart hangs a retractable extension cord, and it seems everyone is searching desperately to plug their extension cord into another person's heart. Third Frame: With trepidation, they approach others and try to plug in to that person's heart, only each time they plug in, the cord snaps right back. Last frame: after walking around and around and unsuccessfully plugging in to other people, they finally get the picture, and pull their plug out just a little bit and plug it right back into their own hearts. Moral of the cartoon: You are your own power source. Your love comes from within. I learned this lesson early on, when I was perhaps six or seven years old.

When I was a child, we lived in a small beach community where the houses were built fairly close to each other. The man who owned the house behind us, Mr. Woodman, lived alone. He was well over six feet tall. He had a lone curly sprig of hair that jutted straight out of the top-center of his shiny, bald and misshapen head, and on the sides were indentations where forceps had made their marks. His ears were disproportionately large and his nose was bulbous red, and off-center. To make matters worse, one eye looked directly at you while the other wandered off somewhere to the left. I never knew which eye to follow. People shunned Mr. Woodman because of his presence. His gait was lopsided and his smile was one-sided due to a long-lasting case of Bell's Palsy.  He was the only loan officer in our one-bank town, thus, people had to be nice to him. I was always nice to him. I was too young to understand his role in the community, but I knew I adored him.  Every morning, our paths would cross as he walked to the bank and I walked to school. He would always stoop down to my level and ask me how I was and what I thought I'd learn in school that day. If I'd see him later on, he'd ask "What did you like about school today?" or "What didn't you like about school today?" or "What would you change about school today?" To this day, I find myself asking those three questions and can tailor them to just about most things. 

Mr. Woodman had a secret that I'm guessing only a few knew. Since our homes were so close together, I could hear him get ready for work in the morning; the squeaky closet doors, the click-creak-click of the medicine cabinet, and the rush of  water in the bathroom sink. Every morning his routine would be the same. Squeak, click, water rush, then these words would belt out of his crooked mouth "Bob, I love you!" and applause. Yep, applause like clap-clap.  I felt bad for him knowing he had to tell himself that he loved himself because no one else loved him. Then, I got to wondering if all adults did this? Was this something I should be doing? One morning, I went into my own bathroom, climbed up on the toilet seat, open and closed the medicine cabinet, turned on the water and then said "Nancy, I love you!" and I stood there and applauded myself! My mother rushed in asking me what I was doing. She had heard Mr. Woodman's words every morning as well and thought I was being a clown. I had tears streaming down my face because I loved Mr. Woodman and would never make fun of him. She assured me that Bob had found a way to feel love for himself since he didn't have other people to tell him.  The "applause" my mother told me, - the clap-clap I heard, was him splashing after-shave on his face.  I'm certain it took years for me to process Mr. Woodman's message, but I secretly went into the bathroom every morning after that, ran the water and whispered "Nancy, I love you."  And, still do so to this day, applause and all. Guess I'm pretty well plugged in thanks to Mr. Woodman.

A Brooklyn Sunday Memory

The old Brooklyn Brownstone where I used to live, keeps a Sunday morning secret tucked deep in the corner of its massive master bedroom. I sometimes wonder if the person who lives there now does what I used to do every Sunday morning. This memory trickled through my brain like warm honey today, as I caught the chorus of a church choir drifting on the wind's tail.

It is February. My mother died three days ago and the cold is etched on my bedroom window like fine French Pineapple lace. I ease it open enough to hear the branches shiver. I see my Jewish reflection; I am the blood of my mother and now, I am orphaned and left to my father, a Roman Catholic. I am the blood of my father; I have his thick hair and olive skin. I have her wisdom and wit, and no one's caramel eyes. I have his unconditional love and memories of her.

This morning, I am going to church before I follow my mother’s body down the New Jersey Turnpike. No one knows, but I go to church  every Sunday. In my bedroom.

My friends go to real church on Sundays, but I don’t go with them. I am the Jewish friend left behind to cook brunch for when they return. Knishes, kugels, bagels, lox, onions and tomatoes; latke recipes from my mother’s side. Fresh eggs cracked over sweet onion-fried potatoes and shredded Parmesan cheese, toasted Italian bread, salted butter and rich percolated black coffee, from my father’s side.

Little do my friends know that I have been to church and back. In my bedroom.

The table is set, the kugel baked. Eggs sweating, are waiting for their one-handed crack. The New York Times waits to be divided and read by my peers. I get the obits. I always get the obits first, no questions asked, but from the corner of my eye, I see perplexed second-glances peering at my unusual interest in strangers' obituaries. It's their stories, I tell my friends; little memoirs. I want to read the how, and who is left to cope and remember.

Ten bells echo from the rear of the Brownstone, beckoning me to  retreat to my bedroom. The windows have tear drops now and I open them like wide mouths ready to inhale. The sounds of the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir fill my room; my backyard, their sanctuary.

I swing with the bosom of the soloist.

I tremble with the fear of the sopranos.

I clap with the Amen corner.

I belt it out with the altos.

For one glorious hour I am Black.

I am saved.

I am not Jewish.

I am gospel music.

I am mourning.

I rejoice.

By the time my friends arrive, I am revived. With mouthfuls of kugel, there is no talk with their Jewish friend about church. Dare I tell them I've been there and back? Instead, we celebrate my mother’s cooking, her quiet, disturbed life, the memoir her daughter may one day write.  The dishes are cleared, the paper neatly stacked with the puzzle on top for when I return. My friends send me across the Brooklyn Bridge to the New Jersey Turnpike alone. 

The only music I heard at my mother’s funeral was the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir playing in my head accompanied by my father’s wailing.

Amen.

Cold and Rainy Served Up With a Smile

Rain drops

like skipping-stones 

dimple the lake's green face

skimming across its reflection

of clouds

Bebe smiles rain or shine.

Frost Bites The Garden

Just one heirloom tomato survived the past week of record breaking low temperatures in Tampa. One. Of twenty tomato plants, assorted herbs, onions, peppers, green beans, broccoli, turnip greens and rhubarb, the winner is a precious heirloom tomato which grew from seed from a tomato brought back from Granny's garden in Michigan. Figures a Michigan tomato would survive a hard frost in Florida. I'll savor every bite of this tomato, minus the seeds, which I'll dry and plant next week. Sure, some of the herbs will bounce back, the onions were planted deep enough to possibly survive, and the rhubarb is showing some promise, but, by and large, the garden is kaput. For now, I'll be pulling frost-bitten remainders from a garden which has fed me, my neighbors and friends since before Halloween.

I look forward to new beginnings: the smell of fresh rich soil, the anticipation of watching seedlings peek out to greet and tease the sun, the early starting of my days by picking beans under moonlit mornings and the careful watch of cardinals, the satisfying ache in my lower-back and calves from working hard, and the potential of delicious, home grown food on my plate.

The frost is gone and life goes on.

Patching My Soul

Main Entry:

soul patch

Function: noun

Date:1991

 a small growth of beard under a man's lower lip

Today, I am reminded of the power of "beauty parlors" and the time when I used to go to an upscale hair boutique in a ritzy neighborhood. Upon entering the salon, I was always greeted by a human Barbie Doll concierge who seated me in a foliage-lush waiting area and offered me exotic blends of coffee in Limoges tea-cups served with bakery-rich cookies.  While I waited for my stylist's escort to prep me, bottled water and the most current gossip and style magazines were laid at my fingertips.  The escort would find me and lay a silky cover-up on my lap and lead me to the bathroom to change out of my shirt. There was something almost unsettling about getting my hair cut with the feel of faux silk laying against my bra-clad breasts. The "changing room" was a model-home bathroom, equip with satin-soft hangers to hold my Target-bought t-shirt.  Once I emerged from the garden-shed sized powder-room, she would quickly wash my hair three times, ending in a frigid water-rinse and would tightly wrap my head in a plush terry towel smelling Downy fresh.  I clearly stood out from the rest of the ladies at the salon, but I liked my stylist who migrated there from another less posh shop.

I had the same stylist for 10 years until she retired. Hannah was an Amazon woman with a thick German accent whose fingers were yellowed from a half-century of smoking non-filtered cigarettes. Once she quit cold-turkey, she was never quite the same. Her routine that was once ruled by cigarette breaks, was no more, and she became blind to the hands of time. I would often wait longer than it would take my hair to be done. Most times, I would schedule a wax session  before my cut to make the time pass more quickly, if not more painfully. For $35, the French-trained estheticologist would slather-on uncomfortably hot wax upon my upper and lower lip as well as my eyebrows, then she'd cut and place strips of cloth on each area, all the while, the wax was hardening. Then zip, rip and tear in a nano-second. Why I paid for this torture, I have no idea. But I do know that I love the feeling of having a smooth face where bristles once took over.

The last time Hanna cut my hair, she used the wrong number on the clippers. In order to compensate for her mistake, she just kept going with the same number, leaving me with a crew-cut in the back and an Alpaca-looking poof up top. I drove around for hours before going home to show off my new doo, which was met with sobbing laughter. When Hanna retired, my head was handed over to the owner of the shop on a silver platter for inspection, where she declared she'd take me on after careful evaluation of my scalp, follicles, color and texture. I lasted about two years with the owner. I don't really know why I stayed. It was just a habit and I was used to shelling out $50-$75 bi-monthly for a trip to the salon.

When I moved to the other side of town, the salon became an inconvenience, and I guess I finally realized that I really wasn't the salon type. The more I went there, the more I loathed the element it represented.  My new neighborhood has nothing upscale. Strip malls are cluttered with Super Cuts and Pizza Huts. There are Latin coffee shops and bodegas on every corner. Family owned jewelry stores are speckled here and there and mom & pop eateries are peppered all around. Then, there's the sign advertising $8 haircuts, and I took the bait.

No concierge needed. Instead, I walked into a seating area with black folding chairs lined up in three small rows and took a number from a deli-style red ticket dispenser.  A Vietnamese woman in a loud, high-pitched, nasal sing-song voice yelled to me.."Hello friend, welcome to Kimmy Hair! You want coffee, missy? Free! Pot is ovah there by door. Help self and take ticket." There were five stations, and a good portion of the clients were men getting fades. The waiting area was full with families and kids sitting on the floor playing with trucks and race cars. I took my number, stood by the door since it was standing room only, and got an eye-full. The greeter, was Kimmy herself, the owner. She smiled and chortled in Vietnamese non-stop to her employees, and welcomed everyone by saying things like "Hello my friend! I glad  you come back see me! How your wife? Where your dog today? Or, "How come you no see me in long time? Your hair too long now, you look like hippie." It seemed like everyone knew the routine. Come in, get a ticket, watch and wait. Even if the seats were all full, they had a system. Kimmy had the main chair, her two daughters had their own stations along the wall and there were two others who alternated between cutting, washing and sweeping the floors with a 2-foot homemade broom and a make-shift dust-pan. Hair was not just cut here. Heads were slowly massaged with conditioners and gels, eyebrows were neatly trimmed, cowlicks were laughed at and cut out, questions were asked and answers were carefully listened to, so much so, that I realized that it wasn't the $8 haircuts that brought people back cut after cut after cut, it was the culture of Kimmy's.  This was my new "salon".

I've been going to Kimmy's for about 6 years now and every time I go, I come home with more than just shorter hair; I come home with a story.  One time, I went in and Kimmy said.."You need color, missy! I can make you look 20 year younger. Too bad I can't make you look 20 pound thinner!" And then she laughed and laughed her long song-like "hehe he heeeeeee" and smiled kindly at me.  I didn't take offense and laughed along with her because I knew she wasn't being intentionally rude. That would never have happened in my old salon!! And, I really didn't care. Kimmy was honest.  Kimmy never fails to ask how you're doing..."How teaching? You still go there every night? You busy, my friend, you vedy busy. Sit down, relax and have coffee."

Yesterday, I looked in the mirror and knew it was time to visit Kimmy.  Suddenly, my hair was growing width-wise, and I don't know who I resembled more, Elvis for my thick side-burns or Omar Sharif for the thin shadow of a mustache I had growing.  I also had a dire case of mono-brow and a small blonde soul patch neatly positioned under my bottom lip. I've always had this little tuft of fuzz there. It's like my personal worry stone. I stroke it unconsciously when I'm thinking, reading, or playing at the computer. I'd never get it waxed because it's always been a part of my Jewish-Italian uniqueness. My plan at Kimmy's was just to get a cut, since it was 6pm and closing time.

Kimmy greeted me..."My old friend here again! You need color to get rid of ugly gray hair! You want me for to color you today, missy?" I told her not today, that I was beginning to like my gray hair. I took a ticket and sat down. She was finishing up a man's cut by rubbing cream into his scalp. If he were a cat, he would have purred. Since it was closing time, there was only one other man in the store who came in just after I arrived.  Kimmy asked.."You sure, my friend? I stay late just for you -  make your face look younger!" I thanked her and said maybe next week. Kimmy finished up her client and then disappeared into the back. One of the other stylists came out and called the man instead of me. I figured Kimmy would be out in a minute to do my hair, when I heard a sudden outburst of what sounded like angry Vietnamese coming from the back. Kimmy apparently told the stylist to take me instead of the man. I felt stung and realized I should not have protested the color and that I probably hurt Kimmy's feelings. She didn't come out of the back until my hair was almost finished. It turns out she was finishing up a color for a very old Vietnamese woman, and wasn't mad at me at all. Momentarily, I felt better.

She approached me with another one of her employees, Tammy, who usually waxes my eyebrows.  The two were chirping away in Vietnamese. Kimmy said to me..."Missy, you need wax today! I can't see wrinkle on forehead because you have one brow! You have long blonde hair coming from eyebrows, and you have one long black hair here on cheek! Tammi get rid of that for you today. And mustache, too. You have dark mustache one side, blond mustache the other side. You get wax one time a year not good enough!" Then she reached out to my face and grabbed my soul patch between her thumb and index finger and tugged on it while wagging it back and forth saying....."And what this growing here? I can grab it, it so long! Tammy wax off!" My tongue slipped out of my mouth and the tip of it caressed the soft little bushiness under my lip. I reached up to see if I too, could grab it between my thumb and index finger, and I could, but just barely.

The next thing I know, I was whisked off into the back room with a hand in the small of my back steering me in the right direction. Before I knew it, Tammy had warm, lightly scented wax painted over my eyebrows and around my lips. She expertly positioned my head like a chiropractor and  ripped off the strips of cotton in four carefully choreographed moves.  She slathered wax under my chin from jaw-to-jaw, pressed a cotton sheet against my throat and tore from left to right. She tapped me and said, "See, see?!?"  It looked like she had just waxed the back of Wolfman Jack. Then she tilted back my head to the light, dabbed the soft warm wax on my soul patch and removed my worry stone with one swift rip.  "Done."  Tammy said..."Oh miss, you look beautiful! So clean. You must take care of yourself more than once a year! You're a college professor - people stare at you all day!"  She smoothed the sweetest smelling cucumber-coconut cream on my naked soul patch and then massaged my face until I almost fell asleep. At that point, I had no worries and no stone to rub.

When I left Kimmy's everyone said how beautiful I looked. Kimmy came out from behind her chair and hugged me, then said..."You come back next week, my friend. I color for you and you look even more younger and more pretty." Then she laughed her shrill happy song which stuck in my head all the way home until I looked in the mirror. There,  I laughed at myself for no longer having a worry wart on my chin.

Face-to-Face with Winter and Alpacas

December treated Florida to a roller-coaster of temperatures this winter. The last week of December, Florida was drenched with sunshine and 80 degree temperatures. The days seemed bi-polar; mornings were crisp and sweatshirts covered the goose-bumps on my arms. By mid-day, though, I could wear shorts and t-shirts, only to be replaced in a few hours by that morning's same sweatshirt.

But the last few days of December, I wore quadruple layers of sweatshirts, covered by a fleece-lined jacket. On my head, I wore a headband that covered my forehead and ears and a hat. A wool scarf covered my chest and doubled as a face-mask, and on my hands, I wore fleece-lined gloves. I also wore two pair of socks and insulated, waterproof boots up to my ankles.

Not in Florida, silly! I spent the last few days of December in Michigan.

The first day there, even though there was still some snow left on the ground, the temperature was comfortably in the 50's. I felt cocky and didn't even zipper my jacket. The mercury went down hill from there. Day 2 was windy and bitter cold; 25 degrees at the most. It's been decades since I've felt this kind of cold. My ears stung through and through until I discovered the joy of a fleecy headband underneath my hat. Day 3 was even more bitter. Bitter enough that we went to JoAnn's Fabrics and bought flannel and fleece material to make pajama bottoms. Then, that night it snowed. Now, I was giddy as a child and stood outside in the unforgiving wind catching snowflakes on my tongue. My knee caps were frozen by the time I came inside. Oddly enough, the next day, after a few inches of snow, the wind abated and it was tolerable enough to walk in for a while, providing I was completely bundled up. Everyone laughed at me, stiffly walking in layers of clothing like a robot. Michigan folk are used to this. My Florida blood is way too thin for this kind of cold. The last two days there were unnervingly bitter. It was 9 degrees on New Year's Day when we awoke and it only reached 18 by the time we were driving to the airport.

One of the highlights of the trip, besides getting to see Jayne, was going to Rochester to see the town ablaze in Christmas lights. The entire town had lights strung rooftop to sidewalk with dazzling strands of Christmas lights. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen.

The other fun adventure was going to buy Alpaca socks.

Don't you just love the faces on these Alpacas? They're strangely human looking! We visited an Alpaca farm in Attica, Michigan called Funny Face Alpacas. The owner, Darrell, gave us a tour of his farm and opened the gates to let his Alpacas and two Llamas come face-to-face with us. Jilli kept saying, "ooooou, ooooou," and wasn't afraid of them nuzzling her nose. One Alpaca tried to eat my camera! We spent about 40 minutes in freezing temperatures totally fascinated by these gentle, friendly creatures. We each bought a pair of Alpaca socks, which I desperately needed since my little-piggies were popsicle-toes.

Each Alpaca had a name and story, none of which I remember because by then, I was just too numb. Talk about a brain-freeze. I really want to name the couple above something like Aunt Ida and Uncle Ike.

White Michigan

angels
are always near
when new soft snow covers
churches' earth to welcome winter's
new year

Lemony Christmas

Lemons -

  orbed ornaments

 glisten winter's sunshine

 under peppermint-striped cactus -

   Christmas

Is That a BaNANa bread in Your Pocket?

I have three first names. My birth name is Nancy Jane Barbara.  I was named after my mother's best friend Nancy Jane.  My last name, Barbara,  is really pronounced Bar-bear-a, but over the years, much to my father's dismay, its rich Italian pronunciation evolved to Bar-bra as in Barbra Streisand. I don't know when it happened or how, it just did. And it's a nuisance especially when people ask me my last name and I say "Bar-bra." They react by stating, "No, your last name." So, I say "Bar-bra" again, and they get exasperated and say something condescending like, "No, honey, I mean your LAST name." I'm now so accustomed to saying Bar-bra that when I try saying Bar-bear-a, that extra syllable makes me feel like another person. I tried it for an entire day once and it was truly an odd feeling; but no one ever asked me to repeat my last name.

When I was a child, I knew I was in trouble if my mother called me 'Nancy Jane!" And, strangely enough, my cousins always called me Nancy Jane whether I was in trouble or not.  Everyone had a middle name on the Bar-bear-a side of the family and used it; they also used the correct pronunciation of Bar-bear-a.  I think my mother "Americanized" our last name, but the story, as with all of my family's stories, is convoluted. 

Before I was enrolled in kindergarten, if I ever did get in trouble, which was rare, my punishment led to a nick name I still carry from time to time, and that's Nancy-Pantsie.  You see, my mother would make me sit out on the back stoop in just my underpants. The punishment was not only humiliating, but it stopped me in my tracks. I was an active kid, always running, biking and playing shink-ball all over the neighborhood. Often times, I'd go past the two-block limit that was set for me, so sitting me down in my underwear thwarted me from going anywhere far from home.

All through grammar school and high school, I was just plain Nancy (guess I never got in trouble).  When I went to college on a tennis scholarship, my nick-name was Ace due to my clever ability to ace my opponents on the first serve. I wasn't ever really sure if anyone knew my real name because by the time I was a sophomore everyone referred to me simply as Ace.   When I went to graduate school,  I ended up being called Nance by most people, which I didn't mind. It's always been interesting to me how people juggle my name. 

My moniker at my day job, for at least the last twelve years or so, is Nan.  A former manager at Barnes & Noble just started calling me Nan and it stuck.  There have been several variations on Nan, such as Nanners, Nanager (blending Nan and Manager), and Banana Nan. Outside of work, my friends still call me Nancy, although some have jumped on the  Nan band-wagon, and now and then, a Nance escapes the lips of others. 

In case you're wondering where Banana Nan comes from, well, 'tis the season for Nan's annual baNANa bread bake-a-thon. I started this tradition about ten years ago by making 45 or so mini-loaves of banana bread to give to the staff at B&N during the holidays. Sometime before  Christmas, I pick a time when, from sunrise to well past midnight, I can spend flouring up the kitchen and spattering the walls with  thick, rich banana bread dough. It's quite an ordeal orchestrating what's now come to baking about 100 little loaves of banana bliss. I pull out the 20-pound cobalt-blue mixer, line up all the ingredients in the order that my recipe calls for them and I start the assembly line from spraying each tin with cooking spray, to filling them just the right depth with smooth banana goodness to wrapping them in festive plastic wrap. The mixer spins non-stop for hours and the house smells like vanilla-baked bananas with buttery cinnamon drizzled on top.

These days, there must be some kind of banana bread button that gets subliminally pushed right around Halloween, because lately, starting in early November, people begin asking me when the baNANa breads are coming .  Those initial 45 loaves have now doubled, at least. No longer do I bake just for the staff at B&N. Friends and neighbors who hear of my 16 hour banana marathon ask when their mini-loaves are coming. And, now, it's not just one loaf per person! Lamenting friends and colleagues drop hints such as, "Oh my husband ate all of mine! Can I have two next year?" or "I'm going to eat this one for breakfast, too bad I won't have another to eat later on at home!" Despite the constant pleas, I still make the loaves mid-December and deliver them slightly warm from the oven around breakfast time at the store.

For the holidays, we hang bright red stockings trimmed in white in our break room; each tagged with a bookseller's name.  I stuff each little pocket with one or two loaves, depending on the order. The break room quickly attracts hungry booksellers sniffing and smiling at the wafting banana breath exhaling from the room. 

It looks like the time has come to get shopping for this year's baNANa bread boNANza..  Let's see, one-hundred mini-loaves? Here's what I'll need:

12 pounds of butter 

10 pounds of sugar

24 pounds of unbleached flour

72 eggs

24 tablespoons of baking soda

24 tablespoons of salt

24 tablespoons of cinnamon

150 bananas

9 quarts of sour cream

24 oz of pure vanilla extract

100 mini pans

1 can of Pam with Flour for Baking

2 rolls of festive plastic wrap

comfortable shoes

Christmas music

Imagine what that shopping cart looks like, not to mention the looks I get while standing in line with my very own banana boat. 

In case you want to make just one banana bread like a normal person, here's a pared down recipe:

1/2 cup (1 stick) butter, at room temperature
1 cup granulated sugar
2 large eggs
1 1/2 cups unbleached flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup mashed very ripe bananas
1/2 cup sour cream
1 teaspoon vanilla

1/2 teaspoon of cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350,  spray or butter your loaf pan (9x5x3), cream the butter and sugar with an electric mixer. Add eggs and beat well. Sift (important) dry ingredients together and combine with the butter mixture. Blend well and add bananas (very ripes ones), sour cream and vanilla (use the real stuff, not the imitation kind).  If you want, you can add nuts. My breads, however, are all female.  Stir well. Fill pan almost to the top and bake 1 hour.

And, that's why it's called BaNANa Bread. If you want one in your pocket, place your order now!

Bebe Rolls Over

Ten weeks of puppy school and one year later, Bebe rolls over, at last!

Thanksgiving and other Endings

Wednesday, Thanksgiving "eve", the pies and muffins were baked and the pilgrim-themed table had been set all by the time I'd finished my third cup of coffee. Between the sweet drippings of the apple pie and the spice of the pumpkin, the kitchen smelled like a gingerbread house with a fireplace ablaze. Before noon, the chill of the morning turned into an almost tropical warmth. The sun was turning the lime green lemons corn yellow and the six heads of broccoli were proudly awaiting their inevitable decapitation for the upcoming feast. Then Tony died.

Tony was a war veteran, a good neighbor, and an animal lover. He hung a tattered American flag from a tree outside his bedroom window. He once cried over an ill and orphaned baby squirrel whom he adopted and then had to take to the Humane Society. A gruff New Yorker with a tough exterior and a soft heart, Tony was a character. He ambled side-to-side due to multiple hip operations; walking caused him great pain. He had no family; his neighbors were his only friends, especially Mary Ann, who lives next-door. From our backyard, you could hear Tony's cigarette-aged voice laughing, animated and playful when he visited Mary Ann for their morning smoke and coffee chat. His dog Reggie, a gentle Pit Bull mix, was always by his side. He had a black and white tuxedo cat he called Felix who would sit on a ledge lording over Reggie as if to pounce on anyone who would dare disturb the stocky white would-be beast with a splash of caramel across his rump.

For two days, Reggie sat vigil at Tony's feet until a friend discovered Tony had quietly slipped from here to there. When the sheriff arrived, Reggie gave up his watch and paced outside with his tail set south. By the time the medical examiner drove up in her hearse-black car followed by a sheet-white van, our neighbor George invited Reggie into his home where he could mourn the loss of the man who rescued him two years ago. He'd have the company of another dog and and a few other cats for the rest of his days. And of course, George took in Felix as well.

When Tony was wheeled from his front door down the path to the van, he was clad in a blanket of black vinyl. Our neighbors stood side-by-side saying their silent goodbyes; this would be his only funeral. I took down his flag and waved him well, thanking him for his service to our country and strew petals from his Bougainvillea in his path. As they drove off, we could hear Reggie howling his version of Taps.

That night I went to Red Lobster for dinner with Kim and Kim. We discovered the best time to go there is the night before Thanksgiving as it was practically empty. We spent our entire dinner conversation going around the table stating what we're thankful for. It started with our friendship, the roofs over our heads, food in our cupboards, our significant others, to our parents, each others' parents, good neighbors, the election results, our jobs, our bosses and even the little boy whose dying last wish was to feed the homeless. Dinner was satisfying.

Thanksgiving morning, I made the stuffing, stuffed the bird and started roasting well before noon. Two more guests were added to the list, thus, two more place-settings. I decided I still had time to make bread. I mixed the dough and yeast and added water. As I was transferring the canister of rising dough from the counter to the bread machine, it slipped from my hands, sunk straight down to the Terrazzo floor hitting it with a sickening crack. The mixture sucked in a deep breath, looking like a belly button. Then, it catapulted thick rising dough straight up like a rocket directly onto my mouth-agape,  aghast face with a resounding "whoosh".  I was covered with fast-acting, yeast-activated dough. Quarter-sized droplets doubled in size by the seconds as flour puddles spread on the tablecloth, on the rims of water goblets, silverware, plates, Saran-wrapped pies. The little pilgrim people had blobs of dough obliterating their smiling faces and I had yeast dripping from my chin, earlobes, eyelashes, hair.  I could see a dinner roll starting to rise on my nose. The chairs looked like black cows with white spots and the floor looked like one big cookie sheet. All I could do was laugh. From the tips of my hair to my slippers, I was the Pillsbury Dough Boy's twin. I had two hours to get rolling (no pun intended). I stripped, ran for the mop and some rags and started cleaning from the counter tops on down. The dough started to harden on the floor, mopping only spread the mess. I found an industrial scraper in the closet and started scraping the newly waxed floor. I cleared the table, washed every dish, glass, knife, fork, spoon and pilgrim while the table cloth was in the washer. The dough was hanging like icicles from my ears and when I had chance to glance in the hall mirror, I should have taken a picture, but I'll let your imagination do the talking. In an hour, all was clean. I took the once-starched tablecloth out of the dryer and draped it over the table. It was one huge wrinkle, so I ironed it right on the table!

By mid-afternoon, my guests arrived and everything was Martha Stewart perfect (in my dreams). Uncle and Mike, Nile, Kaye and Evan and I enjoyed string beans and broccoli picked fresh from the garden, turkey, stuffing, muffins, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, pies and Mike's homemade candy. Before dessert, we even stopped to take a plate to a homeless man up the road. By the time everyone left, and the dishes were done, I was full and satisfied. As I was turning out the light, I noticed a big blob of hardened dough defiantly hanging from the shade in the kitchen.

This morning while picking green beans, I noticed the absence of Tony's New York bravado echoing between the yards, and two other miracles of nature. First, the squirrels had had their own Thanksgiving feast. All the ears of corn were neatly chomped down to the stems, leaving not a trace of silk behind. And, it seems the time has come to prepare for the next holiday; the Christmas Cactus is getting ready to bloom. One thing for sure, though, there will be no dinner rolls on the menu (just memories of them rising from the flour, uh, I mean...floor).

My Ode to Thanksgiving (written when I was 14 years old)

Preparing for Thanksgiving, I remembered a poem I wrote when I was in grade school. Luckily, I had a copy of the original; it was in an old blank book I'd filled with childhood ditties which I had given my parents as a gift. I remember reciting this at the dinner table one Thanksgiving.

"A Thanksgiving Prayer"

And now I sit me down to eat.

To consume what's in front of me,

I call a big feat.

I pray from my soul that I will not gain weight,

and promise myself

not to refill my plate.

I tried not to think how that bird must have felt,

to be baked at a temperature

even God couldn't help,

The turkey all shiny and dripping and stuffed.

It's all so delicious, on to seconds,

the first is not enough!

The cranberry sauce, the potatoes, so good!

The pumpkin pie! 

Oh, I ate all I could!

Remember that turkey, how luscious and fat?

Well, the next time you see me,

I'll look just like that!

As for today, I made pumpkin pie with a little less sugar than what Betty Crocker called for in the old red-plaid cookbook, and the apples in the apple pie are organic. The veggies and herbs will come mostly from the garden this year, and the turkey is all natural. It will be stuffed with Jayne's sage dressing recipe, and garnished with rosemary, both herbs snipped fresh from the garden as well.  It will still be luscious and fat. Hopefully, the next time you see me though, I won't look just like that! 

Grateful

picking green beans -

broccoli dew drops glisten

I snip herbs to rosemary's scent -

Thank you